


How Did I Get Like This

by teakturn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Good Peter Hale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teakturn/pseuds/teakturn
Summary: “I’m not tired.” Lydia’s voice comes out a croak.Peter doesn’t stop tucking her in, “Then don’t sleep. Sit here and recharge,” he leans in close to press a weightless kiss to her forehead, “I’ll take care of everything else.”





	How Did I Get Like This

Lydia shows up to Peter’s apartment with condoms and wine. She doesn’t waste any time on pleasantries. Once he opens the door she barrels in and starts talking before he can say anything to ruin her confidence.

“Here’s how this is going to go, you’re going to strip, I’m going to ride you. Once I’ve cum it’s up to you to climax or not. But there will be no biting, no hair pulling, no scratching, and you will wear a condom or I'll call this off.” She unbuttons her blouse and steps out of her heels.

Peter, still standing at his open door in a grey sweater and unbuttoned jeans, stares at her for a long moment. His hair is still slicked back but his feet are bare. From her spot next to his couch she can see a lone glass of wine and a book, bookmarked on the coffee table. All evidence of a quiet night in. The domesticity of the predator she’s come to fuck is jarring enough to make her doubt herself.

Peter smirks, “Hello Lydia, what a surprise. Do come in and make yourself at home.”

Lydia scowls, “You know what I’m here for.”

Peter closes his door and with a soft click, she’s alone with him, on his turf. “I can’t say that I do. I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” with a flick of his wrist he locks the door. 

Lydia waits for the usual fear, the sinking feeling of dread she’s come to associate with being with Peter. For so long he was nothing but a nightmare, then a regretful memory. But she’s a grown woman now, she’s different from the sixteen-year-old he traumatized. So when he approaches her she doesn’t tremble, and she feels proud of that fact.

Peter moves through his house with muffled footsteps. His carpet is thick and dark under her feet, it extends exactly from the front doorway to the living room. Dark wood flooring leads further into what Lydia presumes is a bedroom and a bathroom. His kitchen has dark marble tile that matches the back-splash above the countertops. Everything in his apartment screams dark luxury. There’s even a fire crackling in the fireplace below his flat screen TV. 

Lydia follows Peter’s footsteps into the kitchen. His appliances matched with the dark cherry wood of his cabinets. Peter pulls out another wine glass and then uncorks the wine bottle sitting next to the sink. Without looking at her Peter fills the glass and then slides it over to her. 

“I’d ask how you found my apartment but that’d be insulting to both of us.” Peter takes the wine bottle from her and appraises the label. “So how about you start with why your here and what you expect me to do about it.”

Lydia lounges against the counter. Her unbuttoned shirt falls open to reveal her lace bralet. The black looks stark against the pale unblemished cream of her breasts. With subtle angling, she’s able to reveal the scar he gave her. Lydia understood the power of body language before her peers understood algebra. Many men have fallen for her act.

Peter's like any man, worse than most because of that ever-present wolf lurking under the surface of his skin. When his eyes track her movements there’s a hunger there, a hunger Lydia knows how to exploit and manipulate. He’s not the first man to look at her with undisguised want. But what separates Peter from all other men, is the knowing smirk on his lips as he stares at her.

Lydia sips at her wine, “The worst thing about this life is how distancing it is.” She touches her fingertip to the rim of her wine glass. Red has never been a favorite of hers, the flavors don’t suit her palette.

Peter begins the process of uncorking the bottle she brought. Lydia indulges herself by watching the impressive display of his muscles as he pulls the cork from the bottle. Before pouring, he allows the wine to air out.

“Stiles unavailable? I’m sure even McCall would be suitable enough.” Peter brings down another glass and pours himself a generous amount.

Lydia doesn’t snort but it’s a very close thing. With smooth movements, she circles the island to stand in front of Peter, “No." She takes the wine glass from his unprotesting fingers and sets it on down, “Now do I have to do everything myself? Or are you going to fuck me?”

Lydia enjoys the flash of inhuman blue in Peter’s eyes but she keeps her face bored, impatient. His hands are on her so fast she has no time to even register his touch before he’s hiking her skirt up. Lydia loses her footing and falls onto Peter’s warm sculpted chest. The werewolf wastes no time in picking her up by the back of her thighs. Leaving her to wrap or arm around his neck or lose her balance. Lydia wraps her legs around his waist while Peter frees up one hand to pull himself out of his jeans.

There’s a sharp moment of pleasure-pain because Lydia, for all her goading and rushing, wasn’t even aroused. Lydia gasps as the unexpected girth of him force her to stretch further, She’s never felt so full in her life. All she can do is hold on for dear life as Peter slowly lifts her up and down his shaft. He’s surprisingly gentle with her, only pushing further in once he’s sure she can take it. Before long he’s seated inside of her, stretching and filling her to limits she’d thought impossible. 

When Peter bottoms out they both moan. An impatient Lydia digs her nails into Peter’s back until he bleeds. With a growl, Peter pulls out of her and slams back in as retaliation. Lydia keens in pleasure.

“God finally!” She cries.

Peter chuckles, not even breathless as he supports her and pounds into her until she’s a moaning mess. All her plans, her calculations, out the window. All she can think about is how full she feels, how deep Peter is, and how it never felt this way with Jackson.

Peter shifts her and the angle changes. The angle has him hitting her G-spot on every thrust and Lydia screams as her orgasms rip through her. Wave after wave of pure ecstasy that has her body shaking and her eyes rolling to the back of her head. Lydia can hear Peter growling as he thrusts. Clawed hands move from her thighs to her back as Peter lowers her to the floor.

Lydia opens eyes she hadn’t even realized she’d closed to see Peter with Beta blue eyes and clawed fingertips. Through a mouth filled with fangs, Peter growls out, “Bedroom. Now.” 

She wakes up to sunlight in her face and a delightful soreness between her legs. Her thighs sport bruises but she’s more concerned about hiding the hickie Peter had sucked onto the skin of her collarbone. Her hair is a golden red nest against the dark grey of Peter’s bedding.

At the foot of the bed was what was left of her clothes from the night before. Her bralette was in scraps next to the pile of clothes. Lydia ignored them and dressed. She left the scraps of fabric on the bed. Lingering in his bedroom, Lydia curled back up in the mattress and drank in the unfiltered scent of Peter.

She’d tried the normal girl thing for a while. Lydia went to college. She pursued STEM but found the company wanting. Her nights haunted by the small town she’d escaped to the east coast to get away from. Turns out PTSD is a thing, as well as depression and anxiety. It didn’t help that after a hazing gone wrong she’d had an...episode at a rush event. After that Lydia found that she didn’t care much for being a normal girl.

So she left school and she traveled. While in France she had lunch with Isaac. While he was no longer as socially maladjusted as he had been in high school, they had very little to talk about. Isaac had found a new pack, taken up archery, and was teaching himself French so he could apply for citizenship. Aside from Allison, which they did not talk about, and Beacon Hills, which Lydia wouldn’t even let him mention, they had nothing else in common. They couldn’t even talk about France, Isaac had turned into a snob and refused to care about her shopping and winery hopping. Lydia left that trip with a promise to keep in touch and freckles because her skin refused to tan. 

In Tokyo, Lydia gained some perspective. The PTSD hadn’t gotten any better and her anxiety had her holed up in her hotel room for weeks on end. After insomnia gave way to hallucinations Lydia knew she needed an anchor.

Without thought the first person she calls is Peter. The time difference is stark enough that she’s a day ahead of him but he picks up the phone as if its a regular Tuesday. Peter answers the phone and Lydia's transported to a time where nothing made sense but at least there were a few constants. Stiles babbling and being a spaz, Peter being an unhelpful creep, Allison and Scott are soulmates.

“I can’t say that I was expecting your call.” Peter’s voice is so familiar Lydia sobs. She hugs the phone to her chest and covers the receiver to muffle her weakness. When she knows her voice won’t betray her she manages a laugh.

“Well, I’m sure you heard. I’m on an international reunion tour. I just left Paris after visiting Isaac.” The words flow out of her with ease, as if she isn’t talking to the man who completely changed her life in one awful life. She’d learned how to talk past the awkward or uncomfortable parts of a conversation during the beginning of the end of her parents’ marriage.

“Ah, Paris. I trust the shopping was wonderful.” Peter said.

“I lived in the Dior store. I was able to find suitable boots for fall and a complimentary purse.” Retail therapy lasted as long as her father ignored the charges she made on his credit card. After her Dior shopping trip, he’s sure to cancel the card as punishment.

Peter chuckles, the sound is like caramel melting over hot coals. It simultaneously warms her and chills her to the core. An amused Peter Hale had never meant good news for her and her friends. 

Peter yawned and Lydia dreaded the inevitable end of the phone call, “Well Lydia Martin I want to hear more about this trip your on. Next time call me at a respectable hour.”

“Who said there’s gonna be a next time?” The challenge is out of her mouth and Lydia holds her breath as she waits for a response. The Peter she’d known had never taken well to snubs or challenges. He usually became cruel, and although that cruelty had never been aimed at her she wanted to see if time had softened him at all.

The Peter on her phone simply chuckles and Lydia isn’t sure how she feels about the sound of it, “Get some sleep Lydia, you need it.” 

How had that phone call led to this, Lydia in his bed and, most likely, his life?

The smell of cooking food and hot coffee eventually drive Lydia from Peter’s bedroom and into his living room. The living room is awash with light since Peter has drawn back the floor to ceiling windows. The overall effect makes his dark furniture look stark against the light carpet and grey walls. 

“I want coffee,” Lydia demands as she walks into the kitchen. 

At the stove, Peter flips an omelet, in a smooth glide he’s taking the bacon out of the oven, “What’s the magic word.” He turns to face her wearing a red apron and a smirk.

Lydia bats her eyelashes at him, “Cream no sugar.”

Peter’s smile widens and then he goes into a cabinet and pulls down a black ceramic mug with a matte finish. He assembles her coffee the way she likes it and then slides it over to her, “Good morning.”

Lydia sips at the too hot but all giving liquid and Peter returns to his cooking. The silence between them is only broken by Peter cracking and beating more eggs for a second omelet. He places the completed omelet on a plate with a side of bacon and then slides a glass of cranberry juice across the island to her. Peter gives Lydia her utensils and then turns his entire focus to cooking the perfect omelet.

Lydia is content with the silence. She’s never been a morning person and attempting to be sociable before she’s had any caffeine is a recipe for disaster. In addition to that, she’s found that she much prefers her own thoughts to the drivel people usually start conversations with at the start of the day.

Omelette completed, Peter assembles a plate for himself before settling next to her at the counter. They share a glance before they tuck into their plates together. 

Peter somehow finishes his plate before she does,“I’m gonna shower and head out for a run.” Peter rinses off his plate and the puts it in the sink.

Lydia, now tense in her seat, has a horrible moment of shame when she realizes that this is the end of the booty call. They’ve done what she came here to do, he’s fed her, now it’s time to hold up her end of the bargain and disappear.

Peter places a hand on the small of her back as he passes her on the way out of the kitchen, “Don’t snoop. I’ll be back in two hours.” 

He leaves Lydia, so stunned that his words don’t really sink in until he’s shut the door behind him on his way out. It shouldn’t be shocking that, on some basic level, he trusts her alone in his apartment. It shouldn’t be shocking, yet Lydia remains shocked.

She washes the dishes from breakfast and then sort of wanders aimlessly. The apartment is as large as Derek’s old loft but better decorated and actually liveable. The doors in the hallway leading to a laundry room, an office, a bathroom, and a guest bathroom. They are tastefully decorated and clean. It takes Lydia aback once she realizes how organized Peter is. Even his linen closet is organized by color, size, and thread count.

Lydia grabs the fluffiest towel in the closet and then makes her way to the guest bathroom. Her clothes and toiletries are in her car downstairs. The thought enters her mind long enough for her dismiss it and start stripping. By the time she’s turned the water on and gotten it to the perfect temperature, she’s already decided to have Peter bring them up once he gets back.

Lydia runs her bath water hot so that the steam fills the room. She ran a few seconds of the cold tap to make the water bearable. The tub is large enough to fit three people in at once but Lydia occupies as little space in the large tub as possible. The heat of the water has her flushed and sweating before she’s even fully settled into the tub.

She’s too tense to settle, too tense to let the hot water do its job and relax her. The silence feels more acute combined with the steam turning the rest of the bathroom into one big blur. Peter had to have a hard-on for dark colors. Gunmetal grey faucets against volcanic rock tile and dark wooden cabinets made her regret her decision to keep the lights off. There were no candles and she wasn’t sure if their presence would brighten her mood.

Instead, she’s left sitting with her thoughts which is the last thing Lydia wants to do. She just wants to be free. Free of thought, free of obligation, free of the weight of being a survivor. She’d gone through years of hell just to get her life back and then amazingly the life she’d always planned for fell into her lap. Now at almost twenty-five, she was having a midlife crisis and going to Peter, of all people, for help.

Lydia drains the tub and then sits on the edge of the tub in just her towel. Unable to think past the water level getting lower and lower until she’s staring at her own warped reflection in the bottom of the tub. This is how Peter finds her, dry, hair frizzy and damp eyes lost as the husk of her pale body clutches a towel to her chest in some performance of modesty. Peter had seen her through to the bone, had lived in the back of her mind, this towel was about as useful as a paper napkin. She clutched at it anyway, because it was all she had.

“Oh, Lydia.” Peter sighs and crouches in front of her. His eyes search her face, and he doesn’t touch her. In fact, he’s as far away from her as he can be while still being inside of the bathroom. Lydia can’t even look at him. Hre eyes never leave the bottom of the tub. 

Peter stands up and leaves the bathroom. If Lydia focuses she can hear the soft pad of his steps move towards the kitchen. She latches on to this sound as an anchor in her lost state. Peter moves about the kitchen then he passes the bathroom on his way to his bedroom. When he returns he hands her a warm mug of sweet-smelling milky tea, the way she likes it, and strips her of her towel.

In place of the towel is a long sleeve shirt and sweatpants. He dresses her and despite her utter nakedness, the act feels almost impersonal. Peter fits Lydia’s arms into the sleeves and guides her head through the neck hole. With slow, warm hands he cups his hand around her calves and helps her step into the sweatpants. 

Lydia cups her tea in her hands and lets herself be moved. When Peter makes her stand she rises easily and sips at her tea while he pulls up the sweatpants. A part of her feels ashamed of him seeing her like this. That part is small in comparison to the absolute emptiness she’s feeling.

Once she’s dressed Peter guides her out of the bathroom with his hands on her shoulders. They march into the dark guest bedroom and Peter settles her into bed.

“I’m not tired.” Lydia’s voice comes out a croak.

Peter doesn’t stop tucking her in, “Then don’t sleep. Sit here and recharge,” he leans in close to press a weightless kiss to her forehead, “I’ll take care of everything else.”


End file.
